The fragrance of marigolds and roses clung to the air, thick and overwhelming, as if the very flowers wept for me. Golden drapes shimmered in the lamplight, swaying gently with the breeze that slipped through the open arches of the courtyard. The mandap had been erected with grandiosity, its four pillars wound with fresh garlands and silken threads of crimson and gold. Oil lamps flickered along the steps, their flames trembling as though even fire feared the destiny that awaited me.

I sat there, adorned like a bride, yet not one. My hands were heavy with bangles, my neck weighed down by jewels that gleamed mockingly against my skin. Every ornament felt like a shackle, binding me in a prison woven from silk and gold. The priest sat cross-legged before the fire, his voice deep and steady as he chanted mantras, each syllable echoing in the hollow of my chest like a death knell. The crackle of the sacred flames seemed to devour the air, growing louder with every passing breath.